


tell me something good

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anti-Daenerys, F/M, Panic Attacks, set in season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: “Tell me something good,” she says.“You,” he answers, plain and simple.(written for a prompt from @sansuhhhsnark on tumblr)





	tell me something good

**Author's Note:**

> and i'm back!
> 
> and jaimsa is taking over my life tbh sooooo here's my first of (hopefully) many contributions to this ship. enjoy this fic! i had fun writing it! also, i did skip lots of information at the beginning- this is supposed to be set after jaime's been at winterfell for a while and there's sort of an established thing that you guys can interpret. and obviously i've left out some information. but i've barely been able to fit in time for writing so this is the best i can do for now.

The council meetings are often a disheartening reminder of how well and truly fucked the Northerners are, but at the very least, they provide Jaime with the opportunity to notice all the little details and mannerisms of Sansa Stark. She’s perfectly complex, he’s decided, in every small lift of her brow and bat of an eyelid. It’s easy to get lost in her eyes, as well, as easy as drowning in a cold ocean.

“As for the southern front, my lady, we should send a small force to hold Moat Cailin,” says Lord Royce. “It will be the first line of defense for the North. The Knights of the Vale are more familiar with the south. I can personally oversee the operations.”

“If I may, Lady Stark, there are many houses in the Riverlands that fought alongside your brother in the War of the Five Kings. You might do well to remind them of their alliances with the North,” Lord Glover adds. 

Sansa bites her lip just slightly, but Jaime can tell that she’ll be down with a headache later in the day. Matters of state always seemed to frustrate her the most.

“Lady Brienne, what would you advise?” she asks, turning to her faithful knight.

“I would advise acting upon Lord Royce’s suggestion. Moat Cailin is reputed to have a high strategic value,” Brienne says. 

“And what do you think, Ser Jaime?”

Sansa turns to him, prepared for his opinion. His honesty is what keeps him valuable. If he doesn’t offer the truth, he’s just another dishonored knight (minus one hand). 

“I think that if you ignore the Riverlands, you’ll lose the war. There are houses still loyal to the Tullys that will form a first line of defense for the North. Form an alliance between the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands. It will give you the fighting power to deal with the dead, and the security to protect you from Cersei.”

She takes his words into consideration and nods. “Then we’ll pursue an alliance with the river lords. It’s the most logical course of action.”

_ Good.  _ She’s making the right decisions, but Jaime knows it’s not just because of him. Sansa is strong-willed, and she would never make a decision she didn’t agree with. Her advisors are on her side, and she’s asking for their counsel, already avoiding the arrogant mistakes of former monarchs.

“My lady, if I may, the last time a military alliance existed between the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, it was during Robert’s Rebellion. Necessary as it may be, there is a possibility that the Dragon Queen would see it as a threat,” Lord Royce says. 

“She may. But we ought to stand united. The Dragon Queen has her Unsullied, her Dothraki, and her dragons and Cersei has her Golden Company, but we have something stronger. We have an army of people born in Westeros, willing to fight and die for their freedom, not someone’s vague claim to a throne. We’ll reforge the old alliances and send a message that the North will not stand down.”

“I agree with Lady Sansa. We should show our commitment to Northern independence,” Lyanna Mormont says. 

“We’ll send ravens to the houses of the Riverlands, then. Maester Wolkan, you can write the copies, and I’ll sign them myself. Tell the river lords that the words of House Tully are  _ family, duty, honor,  _ and I am mindful of all three. Lord Royce, you can send five hundred men to Moat Cailin, but I’d rather have you here at Winterfell to oversee our military operations. 

“Perhaps Ser Jaime could accompany the Knights of the Vale. He’s more familiar with the south,” Lord Glover says, doing nothing to hide his blatant dislike of the man in question. Jaime doesn’t mind, not truly. Sansa’s opinion is the only one that matters to him.

“No,” she says, quite firmly. “Ser Jaime is my sworn shield, and he stays with me.”

Pride swells in his throat, and he allows himself to smirk in satisfaction.

“We’ll meet again tomorrow to discuss our progress. Bring any urgent matters directly to me, is that understood?”

A chorus of  _ yes, my lady  _ suffices for an answer. Jaime stands and offers his hand, which she takes gingerly as she rises and adjusts her skirts. Though she may only be the Lady of Winterfell for the moment, she carries herself like a true queen. 

_ His queen,  _ Jaime thinks selfishly, rubbing his fingers together as he tries to savor the feeling of her hand in his.

* * *

Sansa won’t allow anyone to stand guard outside her chambers, so Jaime, Brienne, and Podrick take turns sleeping in the room across from hers.

It’s Jaime’s week to take the spare room, but he can’t bring himself to close his eyes. Even though the sound is muffled, he can hear Sansa crying. Brienne has told him countless times to leave her be, to give her peace and quiet, but he can’t stand feeling powerless to help.

At some point, it becomes too much. What good is he if he can’t protect her from the demons that haunt her dreams? Jaime crosses the hall and throws his weight against her door, forcing it open. Sansa is on her bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, taking shallow breaths. She looks up at him with frightened eyes, like a deer in the two seconds before an arrow pierces its heart.

“Can I-”

“Yes. I just… I don’t want to be touched,” she says.

He sits at the edge of the mattress with a foot of space between them. Her hair is mussed and tangled, spilling over her shoulders in a waterfall of autumn red.

“Talk to me,” he says. “Tell me something.”

“I don’t want to- it’s just nightmares. They’re not real,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

“But they seem like it,” says Jaime. “I have them too, sometimes.”

“Does it ever get better.”

“No.”

Sansa runs her fingers through her hair (he wishes he could do the same) and sighs. Her hands are still shaking. 

“You should try to sleep.” He shifts away, but her fingers wrap around his wrist. 

“Jaime,” she says, “will you stay with me?”

He could never deny her anything, so of course he stays. She curls up beneath the thick layers of fur blankets, and Jaime takes up his watch in her stiff chair by the hearth. The fire crackles quietly as it dims down to the embers. Outside, the snow is falling in thick sheets.

“Tell me something good,” she murmurs, her voice obscured by her pillow.

“The color of your eyes. It reminds me of the sea at Casterly Rock.” He sees the corners of her mouth quirk slightly. “Go on, your turn. Tell me something better than that.”

“Lemon cakes.”

He chuckles. “How about candied almonds?”

“Those red-orange roses in the gardens at the Red Keep.”

“Rain in the middle of summer.”

They keep listing trivial things until Jaime says  _ the little cakes with raspberry jam they make in King’s Landing  _ and Sansa doesn’t respond. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from her soft, gentle form.

She’s beautiful when she sleeps, because she’s completely unaware of it.

* * *

 

The next day, the Northerners gather in the great hall and name her the Queen in the North.

She tries her best to avoid it. Royce, Glover, and Manderly stand and deliver rousing speeches, hailing her as their savior and leader. Lyanna Mormont joins in, and is the first one to say the word  _ queen.  _ Sansa tells them to trust in Jon Snow, downplays her efforts, and nearly begs them to sit down, but the Northerners are nothing if not stubborn.

When it’s over, she mutters something to her sister and nearly runs from the hall. Jaime follows her back to her room, and holds her hair as she throws up into the chamber pot.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she chokes out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I can’t be their queen, it’s not right.”

He lets her regain her composure before he speaks. “If I’m being honest, I’d say your Northern lords took far too long. You  _ can  _ be queen. You’ve done better at ruling than either of your brothers. Your people trust you.”

“But  _ I _ don’t know who to trust anymore,” she says, fidgeting with her needle necklace. Jaime realizes that she might be the only ruler he’s ever met who hasn’t wanted to wear the crown. Yet there it rests, invisible on her head. 

“You have your brother and your sister. You have Brienne and Podrick. You have-” 

_ Me. _

“I have…?” 

“You have the support of your people. They believe in you, and so do I,” he says. 

Sansa shakes her head, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to be sick again, but she just stares sadly into his faded green eyes.

“You believe in me? You truly do?” 

“Everything I have is yours.”

_ My sword. My life. Whatever remains of my honor.  _

_ And my heart. _

* * *

 

To say that tensions are high between the Northerners and the Dragon Queen is an understatement. The Targaryen supporters may be distrustful, but the Northerners are downright murderous. 

The war council is crowded with faces Jaime never thought he’d see together. He’s tried to kill some of them. Some of them have tried to kill him. That makes it fair, he supposes. The negotiations have dragged long into the night, and the mood in the hall is bad enough to strangle any man.

“My lords, there are greater issues-” Jon Snow is saying, but an angry roar from the Northern lords cuts him off. 

“We will not bend our knees to a  _ Targaryen,”  _ Glover growls. “The North has suffered long enough under the Iron Throne!”

“I am not here to conquer you, my lord, I am here to save you. Jon Snow has already named me his queen,” Daenerys Targaryen says. Her demeanor is calm but agitated. She was clearly not expecting to meet such resistance.

“The North knows only one queen,” says Lyanna Mormont, “the Queen in the North, whose name is Stark!”

The Northerners voice their agreement. Sansa keeps a steely countenance, though there’s probably a war raging inside her head.

“I must agree with my people. We’ve given too much to be ignored,” she says.

Jaime’s eyes meet with Tyrion’s, and the brothers share a silent conversation. It follows along the lines of  _ what the fuck do you think you’re doing?  _

“And I have sacrificed much to be here,” says the Dragon Queen to Sansa. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand.”

Jaime’s fingers close around the pommel of his sword as he watches Sansa react. She takes her hands off of the table and places them in her lap to hide the fact that her nails are digging into her skin.

“I’m afraid I do,” she whispers, turning her face. 

Under the table, the tips of their shoes bump together. He’s made the mistake of sitting to her left, so he can’t reach for her hand, but he taps her ankle with his and sees her sigh quietly before she straightens her back.

“I need to leave,” she mutters, and abandons her seat without a second glance at the confused lords. Jaime follows her into the halls.

“Sansa- your grace, your absence won’t help. You’re the only one who knows how to rule without resorting to war,” he says, taking large strides to keep up with her.

“I can’t listen to her, not if she’s going to ignore everything I’ve done to get my home back,” Sansa snaps.

“They’ll squabble like children. You’re the Queen in the North, she’s a foreign invader, they’ll listen to you!”

“You could’ve killed her at the Blackwater Rush and saved me a bit of pain!”

She turns the corner and slams the door in his face before he can reply. On the other side, something shatters against the floor. There’s nothing but silence for a few minutes, but then there’s an angry  _ thud  _ and a growl of frustration.

“Seven  _ bloody  _ hells!” she snaps. “Jaime, can you come in here, please?”

He reaches for the door, but pauses. “Are you-”

“Please, Jaime.”

He opens the door slowly and slips inside. Sansa is over by her bed, facing the window with her arms crossed over her chest. A wine glass is in shards over by the fireplace. 

“I can’t reach the laces,” she says. “I just… can you help me?”

_ Yes, always,  _ he wants to say, but he restrains himself. The last thing he wants to do is to take advantage of her. 

“I can call for one of your maids,” he offers.

“No. I don’t want them to see me like this.” She turns around and reaches for his hand. “I trust you. Please.”

_ Trust.  _ The word has never meant anything before, but Sansa makes it mean something to him. She’s turned his world upside down and she doesn’t even realize it.

Though it’s a bit difficult with one hand, he manages to pull the laces out in an alternating pattern. His knuckles brush against Sansa’s back, and she lets out a small puff of air.

“Your hand is cold.”

Jaime pulls his hand away and realizes how much she’s shaking. It scares him to see her like this, when all of the power and calm regality slips away.

“Sansa-”

“Just get me out of this dress,  _ please,”  _ she chokes out, halfway between sobbing and whispering. He finishes with the laces, letting the black fabric fall away from her shoulders. Though she tries to hide it, he can see the thin white scars that mar her pale skin. 

His stomach turns, and he feels sick. He lost his hand to save Brienne’s honor but he’d give his life a thousand times over to go back in time and kill the monsters that live behind Sansa’s eyelids. 

“I’m ruined.” 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, not because it’s what he thinks she’d want to hear, but because it’s the truth, and he’s sworn to be loyal and true. 

She turns around and cries into his chest, gripping his tunic to keep from falling. Jaime holds one arm around her waist and keeps his hand on the back of her head, letting the strands of auburn slip through his fingers like water.  

“I shouldn’t feel like this,” she gasps. “I have to be strong, I can’t do this.”

“You  _ are _ strong. This doesn’t make you weak. I believe in you, and I have faith in you. 

“Please don’t leave me, Jaime.”

“Never,” he promises, “not ever.”

It’s not easy, but he manages to help her out of her dress and into bed. He dismantles the delicate braids that she spends so much time creating and lets her hair fall over her back. As they lay together on the too-soft mattress, he wipes away the tears that run down her cheeks. 

“Tell me something good,” she says.

“You,” he answers, plain and simple.

She’s silent, and then she says, “Keep talking.” So he does, and lists every single good thing about Sansa Stark. When he runs out of things (and it takes a while), he lists every good thing about the North. 

Neither of them get any sleep. Jaime stares at the stone walls and wonders if he’s broken another vow. He swore to protect her, and he could protect her from any manner of horrors, but it’s so hard to save her from herself.

* * *

“There it is. An official annulment. It does pain me terribly to be separated from my dear wife, but I suppose it’s for the best.”

Jaime reads over the brief decree, squinting at the scrawled black print. Tyrion’s handwriting would give him a headache even if he  _ could  _ read properly.

“You’re sure this is everything?” he asks.

“Yes, quite sure.”

“I’ll take it to the queen immediately. Thank you, Tyrion.” 

Tyrion taps his knee, glancing worriedly around. “How is she?”

“Fine. Doing better. She’s strong,” says Jaime. 

“I didn’t know. About the Bolton bastard and Littlefinger… I didn’t know. I would’ve told Daenerys not to say something like that.”

“Don’t you think you should’ve told her anyway? She was beaten in front of the entire court, made into Cersei’s plaything, she saw her own father’s head cut off! That’s not enough to merit  _ mercy  _ on your Dragon Queen’s behalf?”

Jaime stops himself before his voice rises, and shakes his head. His brother stands across from him, searching for the right words.

“You love her,” says Tyrion, almost in disbelief. “You  _ fucking  _ idiot. You fell in love with her.”

He doesn’t respond.  _ Coward,  _ his mind says. 

“Have you told her?”

“No.”

Tyrion opens his mouth and closes it again, most likely thinking of the same thing that Jaime hates to remind himself of.  _ The last time he loved a queen... _

“You are my brother, and I trust you. But if you ever do  _ anything  _ to harm that girl, I’ll have Bronn knock you on your ass with your own golden hand,” he says. Jaime nods dutifully. 

“Good talk,” he says as he leaves.

* * *

Jaime’s grown sick of watching Sansa drown in her thoughts, so he decides it’s completely proper for him to put his maiden-saving skills to good use (and there’s no bear involved this time, which makes matters much easier).

“May I join you, your grace?” he asks, bowing as he comes before the high table. Sansa nods, half of her attention lingering on the Dragon Queen.

“Half of the Northern lords despise me for letting her sit in the hall, and the other half hate me for letting her in Winterfell in the first place,” she says. Jaime sits in the seat next to her, turning so he can block out the dull noise of the others in the room. 

“I don’t care much about the Northern lords. I only care about you.” He leans one arm on the table. “How are you?”

She looks over at him and smiles faintly. “No one ever asks that.”

“Well, I’m asking.”

“I’m fine,” says Sansa, but they both know that’s a lie. Her eyes flit back to the far end of the room.

“She doesn’t deserve your attention. I’ve seen stone walls more interesting than that woman. Why would anyone waste their time on her when they could be looking at you?” His fingers slide closer to hers. “You truly are a vision in that dress. Grey suits you.”

She finally tears her eyes away from the Dragon Queen and meets his gaze. There’s candlelight in her hair, glowing like an ember in a fire. She possesses such unspeakable beauty, yet she’s completely unaware of it. 

“Someone will notice,” she says, shivering as he brushes his index finger over her thumb. 

“Let them. I just want you to be happy.” 

Their hands knit together perfectly, like pieces in a mosaic. Broken to pieces and put back together to create something even more beautiful.

“Jaime,” she whispers. His name sounds so well-shaped when she says it, like the name  _ Jaime Lannister  _ meant nothing until she uttered it. He takes a deep breath and begins to piece together a rocky sentence.

“Sansa, I think you should know- that is, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I lo-”

They’re interrupted by the dark, brooding presence of Jon Snow, who looks as if he’s swallowed sour wine. He has no right to even look at Sansa, ever since he returned from the south with the Dragon Queen at his side and a handful of broken promises to offer as peace terms. 

“I’d like a word with you,” he says to Jaime, almost growling. 

“We were speaking, Jon, can’t you give us a moment?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be right back to you, my queen.” Jaime kisses the back of her hand, letting his lips linger against her knuckles. She blushes and turns her eyes away, and he can see Jon Snow itching to draw his sword and start a damned war in the middle of the hall.

He leaves Sansa at the high table, knowing full well what’s to come.

The moment they’re alone together, the bastard’s fist connects with Jaime’s jaw and sends him stumbling backwards. While he’s trying to regain his senses, Snow tries to shove him against the wall. Unfortunately, he’s a bit too short, so he settles for grabbing his collar instead.

“Kingslayer,” he says, “you stay away from my sister. If you ever come near her again, I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand me?”

“You should have a better arm if you’re going to stop me,” Jaime grunts, tasting the familiar metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

“You don’t deserve to even look at her. Robb should’ve killed you when he had the chance. If it were my choice, I would’ve had your head for all you’ve done to my family.”

Snow looks absolutely murderous, unlike the frustrated but restrained man he had been at the Dragonpit meeting. Jaime suddenly realizes how short the man is.  _ Gods, what a fucking dolt.  _ Brienne could step on him by accident.

“That’s enough.”

Sansa’s sharp voice pierces through the silence like an arrow. She walks towards them tiredly, as if she’s a nursemaid about to reprimand two little boys for arguing.

“Let go of him, please.”

“Sansa-”

“Let go of him and leave.” 

The bastard releases the collar of his tunic, but stands his ground. He’s nothing if not foolishly stubborn.

“I don’t want you near him. He doesn’t deserve you. He has no place by you.”

“And you have no place ordering me around. You can go. Now.”

Snow glances between them before retreating down the hall. Sansa reaches up and runs her thumb over the cut on Jaime’s jaw.

“He shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters.

“He was right. I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you don’t, but I love you anyways. Come on, I’ll clean up that cut and we can have a drink.”

She drops her hand, but he reaches for it and pulls her closer. Her breath hitches. He can feel her heartbeat against his chest.

“Say that again,” he says, half asking and half pleading. 

“No, you don’t, but I love you anyways,” she murmurs. “Come on, I’ll clean up that cut and we can-”

He cuts her off by kissing her, lightly, but with every bit of love he knows. Her lips are soft and his are cracked and bloody, but it tastes sweet and perfect and he’s so,  _ so  _ hopelessly in love with Sansa Stark that nothing matters but her.

“Jaime,” she says breathlessly, pulling away, “is this real?”

He runs his thumb across her cheek. They’re both close to smiling. For once, he can forget that he’s a knight or a lord or a sinner or a savior. He’s  _ Jaime,  _ and she’s  _ Sansa,  _ and maybe they have a chance at being happy.

“It’s real. It’s all the truth I know,” he says. 

They’re both terrible kissers (their teeth knock together and they both say  _ sorry  _ and laugh about it) so he just holds her for a while, in the dim hallway where no one matters but them.

“Tell me something good,” she murmurs, laying her head in the crook of his neck. 

“I love you. And you love me. Perhaps that’s enough.” He kisses the side of her head, running his fingers through the long red hair that he adores.

“Perhaps it is.”

They’re together. They’re alive. It’s more than good enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> was it good? maybe. did i write it while binge watching house of cards so i was kinda distracted? maybe so. let me know your thoughts, hopes, and dreams in the comments. love love love.


End file.
